


Awakening

by thaliaarche



Series: Precipice [4]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Skating, Athletes, Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Olympics, Phantom of the Opera references, Transphobia, Winter Olympics, dieting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 14:05:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10878333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thaliaarche/pseuds/thaliaarche
Summary: Figure skaters Ciel Phantomhive and Sebastian Michaelis enter the 2030 Olympics as teammates rather than rivals. Yet their partnership may collapse under pressure from talented competitors and circling ex-boyfriends and long-buried childhood misery, under the weight of over a decade’s worth of words they’ve left unspoken.They try to fall together.





	1. Chapter 1

“We need to brainstorm next year’s routines,” Grell announces. “If you want another Olympic medal, you’d better go bigger and better.”

(Ciel can barely believe he’s curled up on a chair beside Sebastian, now planning out their 2029-2030 ice dancing programs. He can barely believe they survived the growing pains that came with switching from singles figure skating.

_"Sebastian, now bend and pull him around and — nonononono Ciel get your skate blade away from his ribcage!”_

As Grell can attest, their survival was often literally in doubt.)

Sebastian remarks, "We can compete with the best for technique, so . . ."

“There it is again,” Ciel sniggers.

"Don’t be absurd!”

(“It” is the English accent that has started sneaking into Sebastian’s speech now that he’s moved to London for training, as if he simply can’t help but throw himself into each new role he encounters.)

"Sebastian, darling, you sound even posher than Ciel, which I didn’t actually think was possible,” Grell says.

“Back on topic,” Ciel says, though they’re now all laughing. “We can compete with most of the best for technique, though I wouldn’t say ‘all.’”

"Maybe we should talk about the component score first," their coach muses. “Now, Sebastian, you’re my darling little drama queen, so I’m not concerned about you. Ciel . . .”

“Yes?” He shrinks into his chair as Sebastian covers a smirk with his hand.

“You have recently proven that you are capable of graceful dancing, if only because Sebastian’s artistry is as catchy as the plague . . .”

“Quite the compliment,” Sebastian chuckles.

“But I think we need something particularly theatrical in order to extract your full potential,” she finishes.

(It’s true, Ciel suspects _—_ Ciel’s turned out more artistically worthwhile performances in the past year than in the entirety of his singles career. While he once aimed to beat Sebastian’s beautiful dancing, he now tries to match it. He has little trouble summoning honest emotion when he’s speeding down the ice, pressed close to Sebastian, one arm wrapped around his slender chest . . .)

"As always, the judges are pushing back against any and every innovation, and same-sex pairs is definitely an innovation," Ciel supplies. "We should try and soothe that fear by doing something traditional."

"For the long program, how about _Phantom of the Opera_?" Sebastian says. “It’s classic ice dancing music, maybe even overused, over on the mixed side of things.”

(He presents the idea with a casualness that’s not quite convincing, and Ciel internally sputters. _Phantom of the Opera_ is, first and foremost, a romance, yet the judges have reacted to romantic same-sex routines with knee-jerk dislike. Whereas mixed-sex couples feel pressure to only tell love stories, same-sex couples have been forced in the other direction. Routines depicting brothers, friends, or even strangers have all received warm receptions in global competitions, but never a program about lovers.)

“You can be in black, I’ll be in white, mostly . . .”

“Oh,” Ciel murmurs.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

(Christine, Ciel immediately recalls, is the female ingenue at the center of _Phantom of the Opera_ ’s love triangle. She wears white, while the Phantom _—_ the murderous composer who loves her obsessively _—_ dresses largely in black, excepting a smooth white mask that covers his scars.)

“Of course, we’d both play different sides of the Phantom,” Sebastian says with a shrug. “Ciel could be the violence _—_ no offense, your style just lends itself to that _—_ and I could be the beautiful artist.”The three look at each other, unspoken words heavy in the air.

(It won’t be a love story, Ciel reminds himself. To the masses and the judges, it’ll be a psychological portrait of the Phantom. To Sebastian, still hiding his nonbinary identity thanks to ice skating’s stubbornly regressive politics, it’ll be a rare chance at self-expression. Moreover, Ciel’s never noticed a single hint from Sebastian that their relationship can be anything other than Platonic, and, while he knows on an intellectual level that even friends can skate romantic routines, he feels that lack of real-life romance settles matters. Their program can't possibly be a love story.)

“Sounds like a medal-winner,” Grell finally says.


	2. Chapter 2

Fourth place.

They come in fourth, again, this time at the Grand Prix finals. Ciel might have been content, if only the third-place couple had been anyone else.

The winners, predictably, are Fred and Lau. The young skaters have consistently dominated the competition with their transcendental, superhumanly demanding routines. Soma and Agni, both resurging after a restful retirement, have won hearts with their Platonic master-servant and prince-commoner dynamics. They thus snatched the silver for India.

Third place went to Claude Faustus, who followed Sebastian and jumped ship to ice dancing after a bad year in singles skating. He picked up some sixteen-year-old kid as his partner— the boy uses the name “Alois Trancy,” though a quick Google search outs that as a total fabrication. Nauseous whenever they perform, Ciel indulges in delivering blistering critiques of all their routines. Sebastian doesn’t even protest, simply watching their skating with a neutral expression, tinged with the slightest bit of longing.

Still, despite their flaws, Claude and Alois just beat them handily.

As he checks and re-checks the numbers, Ciel suspects that he and Sebastian are responsible for own loss, thanks to a few missteps. He doesn’t want to lay the blame on prejudice— they’ve repeated the psychological interpretation of their routine for months, insisting that they are each playing a single side of the Phantom, and it seems that the press and the judges buy their story. Even though they seem like the Phantom and Christine, with Ciel skating in tight-fitted black and Sebastian all in flowing white, down until his black boots . . .

Ciel knows they’ll have to practice more and fight even harder, if he’s to reclaim his place on the Olympic podium.


	3. Chapter 3

In their first days at the Olympic Village, Grell shepherds Sebastian and Ciel down to the rink for private practice time, only to find William there, talking Claude and Alois through a difficult step sequence.

“They’ve overstayed,” Grell mutters, though without real force. “I’ll go talk to Will.”

Hanging back, Sebastian and Ciel watch their rivals cross the ice with powerful strokes.

“I think they’ll upgrade that sequence to Category 4,” Sebastian observes.

Silence.

“What do you think?”

Ciel sniffles, then says, “I’b dot so sure.”

He’s still recovering from a nasty sinus infection that unfortunately has interfered with their practices going into the Olympics, attacking Ciel's medal dreams on a new front. First Sebastian caught the bug, and Ciel got it from him.

Now recovered, Sebastian sighs. “I’m going to make you chicken soup.”

“Sorry, bud I hate chicked soup.”

“You’ll like the way I make it,” he chuckles. “I went shopping already— found an organic market with a truly fantastic selection of loose-leaf teas . . .”

Ciel barely hears, eyes locked on Claude and Alois. The slight, fresh-faced teenager spins while bent forward, raising his leg behind him and catching the blade over his spine. Far taller with more raw power, Claude revolves around him, both skates firmly on the ground, supporting Alois through this potentially backbreaking pose with one hand on his chest and one on his thigh. In the next breath, Alois leaps up, throwing one arm around Claude’s broad shoulders. Claude continues spinning, now raising his smaller partner into the air . . .

Ciel feels a stab of guilt. This is how ice dancing is supposed to work— the larger, more muscular skater should lift their smaller, more flexible partner, while the latter tackles the most difficult positions in a spin. In his case, though, Sebastian— inexplicably blessed with the back of a fifteen-year-old female gymnast— both lifts him and spins in more demanding poses, while Ciel is slung about, doing none the work. And though he knows “none of the work” is a massive exaggeration, he can’t help noticing how Claude looks up as William calls him from the rink, looks straight at Sebastian, how their gazes lock.

Mirror skating.

Sometimes, skaters dance as a pair even if their dominant legs are on different sides— instead of spinning in the same direction, they mirror one another. Mirror pairs are rare, but not unheard of. Not for the first time, Ciel realizes that Sebastian and Claude— still half a head taller, and of a more solid build— could become legends that way.

Ciel suspects he is not enough.


	4. Chapter 4

As always, Ciel has dinner with his parents the night before the competition starts. This time around, Sebastian offers to make the food, setting up his portable induction stove in the room he shares with Ciel, mixing up his signature dishes with fresh ingredients from the organic market, boxing four solid courses and pouring chicken ramen and two types of tea into thermoses.

“Can I help?”

“When you tried to help me cook your birthday dinner, you nearly succeeded in amputating your finger and succeeded in melting my favorite spoon.”

“Should I take that as a no?”

Sebastian shoos him away, sniggering.

The dinner is finished with impossible speed, and Sebastian and Ciel pack the containers in well-insulated bags and head out.

-

“It’s all delicious,” Rachel gushes as they wrap up the meal. “Skater, dancer, mathematician, Classicist, and gourmet chef, all in one?”

“You forgot ‘pianist,’” Vincent says. “I saw that arrangement of ‘Angel of Music’ you recorded— it’s beautiful stuff!”

Sebastian shakes his head. “It’s nothing, really, I’m merely . . .”

“The most talented person I’ve ever met,” Rachel finishes.

He sputters at that. “What about Ciel?”

“Nope.” Ciel shakes his head. “These chocolate-covered berry things outweigh my all my life’s achievements, no question.”

Sebastian snorts. “The things you’ll say about a gram of sugar . . .”

"Sweets are the way into his heart,” Rachel says with a wink.

“Mom?”

“And once you’ve got him—” Vincent wags his finger— “don’t let him get away!”

While Sebastian clears out plates, laughing, Ciel stares at his parents in confusion and whispers, “What are you doing?”

"Nothing.” Rachel returns his confused look.

Ciel frowns, then shrugs. “There’s never been any question of ‘me getting away.’ I’m here, for as long as he’ll have me.”


	5. Chapter 5

To nobody’s surprise, Lau and Abberline snatch first place in the team event’s ice dancing portion. Their free program’s score sets a new world record in men's ice dancing, yet Ciel can’t muster any ill-will. They skate so earnestly, with such glorious strength . . .

"There’s something off about them,” Sebastian mutters. “Their whole routine screams ‘Fake!’ to me.”

“You’re usurping my throne.” Ciel raises an eyebrow. “I’m the unjustifiably harsh critic in this relationship, not you.”

“I’m aware,” he chortles. “I just don’t care for them them.”

Claude and Alois come in second, while Soma and Agni take third.

Sebastian inhales. “I swear . . .”

“. . . we’re cursed.”

Their fourth-place finish drops Britain to fourth place overall.

-

In practice, they stumble over each other’s feet, over their own, limbs tangling again and again.

“You need to relax,” Grell says, “both of you. You’ve gotten pretty far on obsession, but now you’re so wound up you can’t see straight. Why don’t you try socializing for once? I hear there’s parties tonight, and if you don’t stay out too late . . .”

“We can’t do ‘parties,’” Ciel protests.

“Speak for yourself,” Sebastian teases. “My extravert facade isn’t half-bad, and I clean up quite nicely . . .”

“We’ll probably both be in bed by eight-thirty,” Ciel snickers.

"This is also possible.”

Grell huffs. “Squares. I’m coaching complete squares!”

-

When Ciel returns to their room after dinner, Sebastian’s not there. Ciel glances out the window and sees people streaming into the next building over, while strobe lights whirl and club music blares on the ground floor.

“Huh.”

He throws his coat back on and drags himself over. At first, he can make out nothing more than a throng of athletes dancing in the dark center of the main hall, but he then notices some stragglers hanging back by the walls. There’s a burly man deep in conversation with a svelte young woman in high heels, grasping her hand between his, shaking it in an apparently impassioned plea, and Ciel nearly looks away . . .

Except the person he mistook for a younger woman is Sebastian, towering in black pumps, wearing slinky black jeans and a silky white blouse, his long black hair freed from its usual gelled ponytail and curling down to his shoulders, and the burly man is Claude.

Ciel forgets how to breathe. Jerking his gaze away, he stumbles back towards the main door . . .

“Hey.”

He turns, feeling a tap on his shoulder, and sees Alois, but not the wholesome-looking kid who shows up on the rink. Though it’s winter, he’s skipping around in a green tank top, ripped black stockings, and grape-purple booty shorts, eyelids covered in smoky orange eye shadow that somehow highlights the sky blue in his irises.

“Hi?”

“You’re a hardcore strategy person, right?”

Ciel narrows his eyes. “Why do you want to know?”

“It’d be excellent strategy for you to kiss me right now.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’m hot, you’re hot—” Alois looks him up and down— “or you could be if you tried a little more. It’s a match made in heaven.”

“What.”

“Okay, actually? Claude wants Seb as his partner next season." He holds his hands up as Ciel gapes. "I'm not making it up! He told me so, he was trying to get me to lose more weight and he thought that'd motivate me, and it did, but not to lose weight. You should kiss me."

"Why?" Ciel gapes. "What's the strategy, I don't get it—"

"We're going to trigger Claude's possessive instincts," Alois purrs, licking his lips, "because if you kiss me, he'll want me again, and I think that'll benefit both of us. Strategic enough for you?"

Ciel has opened his mouth to denounce this farce, to tell him to go find some other actor to not-cheat on Claude with, when a new phenomenon distracts him. Sebastian’s reappeared at the edge of the mass of revelers along with Bravat Sky, a singles skater who dresses even more outlandishly off the rink than on. He’s currently wearing a pleated violet tunic that complements his freshly-dyed lavender curls, accented by a navy-and-gold scarf pinned with a massive, fake gold medallion, bouncing on his chest.

And Sebastian’s dancing with him— against him? on him?— in what Ciel can only describe as a truly obscene manner.

“What the hell.”

Ciel checks that Claude’s still fully within sight . . .

“Oh, of course Claude’s looking,” Alois giggles, stroking Ciel’s collar. “Let’s do this.”

“Let’s.” Ciel grabs the back of his neck and pulls him into a rough, sloppy kiss, tasting his plump lips, his sweet strawberry chapstick.

“Excellent,” Alois breathes into his ear when they finally break apart, “Claude’s fuming. But anyway—” he waggles his shoulders— “I bet you’re _really_ hot under that ugly parka, and I just turned eighteen, and do you maybe want to actually fool around?”

“No,” Ciel replies faintly, “I think I should leave now.”

He flees, showers as quickly as he can, and burrows into his bed, covering his head with the covers. When Sebastian returns, not so long afterwards, he pretends he’s already asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

The next day, they skate their short program— a Eastern-European folk dance routine they’ve used for two seasons now. They don’t fall, yet Ciel can feel their synchronization crumbling before the audience’s gaze. Their score disintegrates, point by point.

As soon as they’re backstage, Grell snaps. “What was that?”

"I don’t know,” Ciel complains, “I tried to just skate normally—”

"You’re not in trouble, for once,” Grell cuts him off. “Sebastian, what happened to you?”

Sebastian regards her coolly. “I thought I skated rather well.”

"Your skating was artistic, dramatic, and all-around beautiful. You know what it wasn’t? In time with the damn music.”

"But—”

"You should know why this pair works by now,” she says, throwing up her hands. “You’re in charge of the most demanding elements, the lifts, the layback spins, the Biellmann, etc. etc. Ciel spends his time trying not to trip over his own feet. But you know what he contributes?”

"A warm body?” Ciel murmurs.

She ignores him. “A sense of rhythm. In all the years I have coached him, he has stuck to the music, stuck to the beat, skated with a robotic quality I have occasionally wanted to carve out of him with a saw. That got him in trouble back in singles skating, because they want some looseness, they wanted him to play a bit more with the phrasing. But now? In ice dancing? The beat is everything. He sets out the beat, he draws out the lines, and you dance your wonderful, beautiful dance _within those lines_.”

Ciel glances at Sebastian. He’s wearing that brittle smile Ciel hasn’t seen in years.

“From your first ballroom lesson together, he led, and you followed. And that dynamic works exquisitely when you pay attention to him,” Grell rants. “But tonight? You lost god knows how many points on just the twizzles, because you were dancing with looseness and musicality and _not with_ _him_.” She groans. “I don’t know what’s up with you two, but if you’re mad at each other, I want that translated into perfectly synchronized murderous glares tomorrow night.”

They end the night at fifth place, with an irreparably large gap between them and the leaders, Fred and Lau. Claude and Alois are in second— they spent their whole routine channeling the obvious tension between them into passion on the ice.

-

As they trudge to their dorm, Ciel says, “Sebastian. I have this feeling we should ta— wait, are those _police officers_?”

They rush to the crowd gathering outside one of the other dorms and hear whispers of “Fred,” “Lau,” “medal” . . . and “doping.”

Officers lead Lau from the building in handcuffs. Though unrestrained, Fred follows, protesting loudly. “This can’t be right! I’ve known him for a decade, he’s never even smoked a cigarette!”

Ciel and Sebastian push through to the front, as Fred’s bellowing grows even more insistent.

“I’m telling you, I know him! He would never take that stuff, much less sell it to other athletes, and this whole thing—”

"Freddie.”

Fred stops, staring at Lau.

"We had dreams of gold, didn’t we?” he murmurs. “But I didn’t have what it took to be a player. I wasn’t enough.”

As the officers lead Lau away, Fred falls to his knees, clutching his chest and sobbing.


	7. Chapter 7

Slowly, the group disperses. Sebastian and Ciel drift back to their dorm, contemplating.

“It’s horrible when partners can’t trust each other,” Sebastian finally says. “It’s lucky I trust you with my life.”

“You do?”

“Yes—” he nods— “even after all the near-death experiences I’ve had trying to lift you.”

“Same to you,” Ciel replies. “Not that I’ve had a lot of near-death experiences being lifted by you. I’ve had surprisingly few, actually.”

“I try to to make sure, when we fall, that you fall on top of me,” he murmurs. “Because ice hurts.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry I’m not enough.”

“What are you talking about?” Ciel sputters. “If this is the rhythm thing, you’ll be fine, maybe I can start following you more . . .”

“I don't just mean tonight, Ciel. All this time, history's been repeating itself. Even with Fred and Lau out, we won’t get an Olympic medal. It’s 2018 all over again, and my skating is too ‘pretty,’ and now it’s dragging you down."

“But my analyses say—”

“Don’t you think your analyses might be biased? Face it, we’re hitting a ceiling. We’ve come in fourth place more times than I can count this season.”

“Seven times.” After a moment, Ciel sighs. “I suppose there is a possibility that we’ve being underscored on assorted programs because of . . . that.”

“So you see—”

“I thought this might be the wrong time to bring it up, what with Fred crying on the ground and all that,” he interrupts, “but maybe not.”

“What?”

“Presumably, Fred and Lau’s points aren’t going to be counted in the team event. Which means Britain just got bumped up to third.”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying you just got your first bronze Olympic medal.” He grins. “How does it feel? Must be a letdown, after all those silvers and golds . . .”

Sebastian stops still, eyes glinting and red. “It feels like magic.”


	8. Chapter 8

“Morning, my lord—” a voice rings out in perfect, proper British pronunciation— “would you like Darjeeling or English Breakfast with your breakfast?”

Ciel opens his eyes and finds Sebastian crouching beside his bed, beaming.

“What?” he answers groggily.

“I decided to save you from the temptation of the cafeteria cinnamon buns and whip up breakfast here,” he explains, now slipping back and forth between English and American accents. “Smoked salmon for protein, served with sour cream to convince you it’s like dessert, plus some fresh fruit, and . . . Oh, what’s your tea order?”

“English Breakfast,” he says. “You really didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to, and not just because I’m kissing up to you before making an unreasonable request.”

Ciel chuckles. “What do you want?”

“Your dad sent me a message yesterday before the short. God knows how he found out—”

“He knows everything.”

“He does! And anyway, he let me know that there’s a ticket bought for tonight’s long programs in the name of Ash Michaelis.”

Ciel stares for a moment, then crashes backwards onto his pillow. “Was this—”

“The reason I was distracted? In part—” Sebastian pauses— “and I’m sorry. I thought it wouldn't affect me. But I suppose it’s better that I screwed up the short than that I look up tonight and see him and then outright fall on the long.”

Inhale. Exhale.

Ciel pushes himself back up, smiling. “All right. What did you want to ask?”

“You know how your dad told me buy back-up skates?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, Nina insisted that I send one pair over to her,” Sebastian says while serving a bowl of assorted berries, “and she dyed it.”

“Why?”

“She said the black was marring the look of her costume, and that she wanted me to have another option.” He chooses his words carefully.

“But black skates are traditional . . .”

“So are these, in a way. She dyed them white.”

Ciel pauses, fork mid-way to his mouth.

“It’s a more elegant look this way, with white all the way down,” Sebastian chatters, busying himself with breakfast dishes. “I think it’d be far more aesthetically pleasing . . .”

But Ciel hears the words left unsaid. In figure skating, men wear black skates. Women wear white. The judges could well underscore them for just this change.

When he stays quiet, Sebastian falls silent as well.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, I know how much the medal means to you, just forget I ever asked . . .”

“Damn the judges.”

"What?”

"Skate to spite them. Skate to spite your father, and Claude, and everyone else who doubts you. Because when we skate, when we work together, you are perfect, do you hear me?”

Sebastian turns away too quickly, swallowing hard. “Have you ever skated simply out of spite?” he asks with forced nonchalance.

Ciel smirks. “On occasion.”

“Is there a story there?”

He simply chuckles. “While we’re clearing the air, I have a question. Have I just been misreading everything, or are you actually considering skating with Claude from now on?”

Sebastian gives him a look. “At this point, I’d rather kill Claude than skate with him. Really, I’d prefer almost anyone else. I started dancing with goddamn Bravat Sky to get that point through Claude’s incredibly thick skull.” He snorts, then grows thoughtful. “Are you asking because of the party? I swear I didn’t know you were going, I didn’t see you until . . . Ciel, why in the world were you making out with Alois?”

Ciel grimaces. “On the bright side, I was not creeping on him because he’s twelve years younger.”

"Then what were you doing?”

"He was trying to trigger Claude’s possessive instincts in order to get Claude to quit chasing after you and chase after him instead. I went along with it.”

Sebastian narrows his eyes. “That’s . . . not the worst idea on Alois’ part. But why would you take part in a plan that could potentially bring our rivals closer, without even checking if I was taking Claude’s offer seriously?”

He winces. “I might have had an ulterior motive.”

"Please tell me it’s not the booty shorts,” Sebastian mutters, pouring out tea. “Those proportions don’t flatter him in the slightest . . .”

“No, of course not! Just . . . remember how I was still getting over that cold I caught from you?”

He whirls around, eyes blazing. “You imp.”

Ciel braces for a lecture. Instead, Sebastian claps and crows with laughter.


	9. Chapter 9

Ciel feels as if he’s returned to steady ground after years spent adrift. He practically skips to the gym for his warm-up workout, just hours before the ice dancing long programs, and joyfully takes to the leg press machine.

“Impressive.”

Ciel drops the weights with a slam. Claude has materialized behind him, leering down at him, surveying the 400 pounds of weights he has easily pressed— and then the expanse of pale skin bared by his shorts.

“What do you want?”

“I think you and I could make an excellent team, four years— or even one year from now.”

Ciel straightens up and glares.

“Then how about just tonight?”

“You can’t honestly have expected that to work.”

Claude responds with a thoroughly slap-worthy smirk. “It was worth a try.”

“Hey,” he barks, “I’d like you to quit trying anything on either Sebastian or me. I’m just not interested, and Sebastian knows better than end up with a loser like you again.”

Claude gives a mock gasp. “Loser? Not the word I’d use. And at any rate, Sebastian didn’t turn me down just because ‘he knows better.’”

Ciel rolls his eyes. “Why else would he stick with me?”

“Are you both this slow?”

“The hell does that mean?”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing!” Claude whistles while striding away.


	10. Chapter 10

Why the hell is he sticking with me?

The question rings through Ciel’s head, even as he stretches and digs up his surprisingly violent playlist from the 2022 games. “Hey, Sebastian— take a listen?”

_“We paint the walls red, murder the innocent!”_

“It’s perfect.”

In the background, Alois screeches for cough syrup.

Ciel throws his head back and cackles, while Sebastian wears a small, subtle smile laced with equally murderous determination. He laces up his white skates swiftly, forcefully. Ciel pulls one of his own laces through the wrong hole . . .

“Oh, I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to . . .” But Sebastian is already batting his hand away, undoing the laces all the way, then retying them, pulling them carefully, with surprising tenderness.

“Thank you.”

Their eyes meet, and for the first time Ciel notices . . . _something_ in Sebastian’s gaze.

“I want to medal, and beat Claude,” Sebastian growls, “more than anything.”

“That’d be nice, but I primarily want to make art,” Ciel whispers back.

“The world is upside-down.”

"I know," Ciel chuckles. “But whatever happens, we are both enough.”

\---

They are the last to compete. As they approach the rink, Alois and Claude are still skating.

Ciel comments without thinking, “Alois’ footwork seems less energetic than normal—”

Though he cuts himself off upon remembering precisely _why_ it seems less energetic, Sebastian leans down and whispers into his ear: “Hellspawn, truly.”

Ciel shoots back a perfectly angelic smile.

Though the score is not their season’s best, Claude and Alois remain in the lead, just above Soma and Agni. Ciel’s brain reflexively calculates, informing him that he and Sebastian must achieve an all-time personal best in order to make up the gap from the short program.

He tells it to shut up.

He skates out onto the ice with Sebastian. They see Rachel and Vincent high in the stands, decked out in red and blue, waving the British flag as always . . .

“Near the front,” Sebastian mutters, “coming up.”

“Kill him with kindness?”

“I suppose we can.”

As if they had rehearsed it, they wave and lob their most glorious, sarcastic smiles at Ash Michaelis, who stares down at them from an obnoxiously expensive second-row seat, wearing only black.

Throughout their initial lap, Ciel feels hyperaware of the fact that he and Sebastian cannot hold hands or glide too close together before the program, as mixed-sex couples commonly do. He is relieved when they take their places, pressed back to back.

He feels Sebastian breathe.

_“Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation . . .”_

Thus they come to life, skating around one another, not yet facing each other.

“ _Darkness wakes_ . . .”

Ciel reaches out to Sebastian.

“ _And stirs imagination_.”

Sebastian responds, spinning about to face Ciel, letting himself be reeled in.

They are the Phantom’s scar and the mask that covers it, smooths it over with beautiful white. They are the killer and the artist, the monster and the “angel of music.”

” _Floating, falling, sweet intoxication_ . . .”

Ciel places one arm around Sebastian’s neck and slips down, falling towards the ice. A heartbeat later, Sebastian gathers him back up. They turn and repeat the same move, except now Sebastian pulls Ciel down, down . . .

And then they float back up and continue across the ice.

Ciel feels as if they are meandering through a dream. For a moment, he can’t help but imagine this as a love story.

“ _Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation._ ”

In the early days of this program, Grell had looked at the suggestive choreography that had accompanied that line in the musical— the Phantom had laid a hand on Christine’s breast— and suggested that Ciel do something similar. He nixed the idea, thinking of the judges.

As they glide past the judge’s table, Ciel places his fingertips by Sebastian’s collarbone and then lets them drift, tracing lines gently down his chest.

“ _Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in . . ._ ”

Ciel whirls around to face Sebastian. He places one hand on Sebastian’s back and feels Sebastian’s hand on his own shoulder. Intertwining the fingers of their free hands, they embark on a step sequence. Ciel directs them across the rink as Sebastian skates blind.

Still, Ciel glances for a moment at Sebastian’s expression and finds him smirking, one eyebrow raised.

They come to a halt as their music transitions from one song to another— from “Music of the Night” to “Past The Point of No Return.” Suddenly, Ciel realizes that Sebastian, when arranging their music, just happened to start with the two most explicitly seductive songs in the show.

“ _Go away for the trap is set and waits for its prey._ ”

They break apart and spin outwards, beckoning now to the audience, to the judges, as if they are both the Phantom and are luring in outsiders, their prey. Yet when they snap back together for yet another step sequence, Ciel can feel Sebastian’s attention turning inwards towards him, gaze burning into him. Perhaps he’s simply heeding Grell’s warning and paying special notice to how Ciel sets the rhythm of this section . . . Or perhaps there’s something more.

“ _You have come here, in pursuit of your deepest urge,  
In pursuit of that wish which ‘til now has been silent, silent._”

Stroking across the ice with Sebastian’s arms around his waist, Ciel feels a new thrill speeding through his limbs. He lands each step crisply and cleanly, committing himself to his artistry like never before.

_“I have brought you, that our passions may fuse and merge . . .”_

They burst apart, and Sebastian spins like a flickering flame before returning, inevitably, to Ciel’s arms.

It is Sebastian’s passion, of course, that has ignited this flame in him.

 _“In your mind you’ve already succumbed to me,_  
Dropped all defenses, completely succumbed to me.  
Now you are here with me. No second thoughts.  
You’ve decided, decided.”

Sebastian tips Ciel backwards, and he lets himself fall, knowing his partner will catch him. Yet his breath stops as Sebastian rotates them away from the judges, towards a row of cameramen, clasps Ciel’s hand in his own . . . And briefly presses it to his lips.

“ _Past the point of no return, no backward glances,  
Our games of make believe are at an end.”_

Sebastian scoops him up and raises him towards heaven, whirling at a dizzying pace, then snatching him back down, still spinning while cradling Ciel in a perfect bridal carry.

“ _Past all thought of if or when, no use resisting . . ._ _  
_ _Abandon thought and let the dream descend!”_

As their dance speeds faster, Ciel realizes they are not only two sides of the Phantom. Yes, he himself is like the Phantom— he is the architect, the mad visionary who planned this final grand masquerade for years, since he stormed up the stairs to Sebastian’s room four years back. He is the schemer, the driver, the director. Yet he would be nothing without a Christine, an artist whose elegance and virtuosity and pure grace could realize his vision and elevate it further.

He would be nothing without Sebastian.

Now they dance in perfect harmony, as Ciel breathes with every breath Sebastian takes, mirrors every flicker of his hands, matches the expressions that flash across his face. It’s not difficult— after all, he has spent almost half his life gazing at Sebastian from afar, memorizing and internalizing the way he moves.

“ _What raging fire shall flood the soul?_  
What rich desire unlocks its door?  
What sweet seduction lies before us?”

They grasp each other, eyes locked for a moment as they both descend, almost kneeling before Sebastian bends backwards with impossible ease and catches his skate blade behind him. Ciel remains upright, holding him steady.

This is a love story.

The music explodes into its final passage, as Ciel takes Sebastian’s hand and begins to race down the rink, pulling him along . . .

“ _Down once more to the dungeon of my black despair,_ _  
_ _Down we plunge to the prison of my mind!_ ”

Ciel lets go of his hand, yet Sebastian spins and overtakes him and grabs hold of his waist, then his leg, and lifts him high. Yet Ciel in turn loops around Sebastian like ivy. He drapes himself over Sebastian’s shoulder, then twists, curling his legs over Sebastian’s arm, embracing Sebastian’s neck, fusing, merging the two of them together until they are a single whole.

“ _Down that path into darkness deep as hell!_ ”

As they strike their final pose, Ciel can barely hold back his smile. The last note fades, and he and Sebastian break apart, and he bows with both legs straight, and Sebastian extends one leg behind the other and curtsies. He then whispers into Ciel’s ear, “How many points do you predict we got?”

“I didn’t keep track,” he says, “but I’m tempted to say all of them.”

Ciel bursts out laughing, and Sebastian smiles blissfully, and somehow their hands meet again as they skate from the rink.

“My darlings!” Grell squeals as the crowd roars in approval. “My darling drama queens! Ciel, you’re destined for a second career on Broadway!”

They stumble to the kiss-and-cry and wait, Sebastian gripping both of Ciel’s hands in his. When the score comes through, he turns to Ciel, tears in his eyes. He glances down at Ciel’s lips, then back up, then falls forward. Ciel straightens up to meet him . . .

So this is what winning gold tastes like.


	11. Chapter 11

“Hey, Mom, the Chinese restaurant sounds great, let’s just ask Sebastian if he has a different idea, he’s been checking out the local food scene and . . . Where is he?”

Grell glances around and frowns. “He was here before that last round of photographers ran up.”

“I saw him talking to some interviewer,” Rachel pipes up. “A guy with curly white hair, all in black?”

Ciel’s eyes meet Grell’s.

“Goddammit.”

Ciel stalks away. He tries to message Sebastian and receives no response.

He sprints through the Village into their dorm and lets himself in. The main quarters are empty, but he sees light filtering under the bathroom door.

“Sebastian?”

A pause. Then . . . “I’m fixing my makeup, I’ll be right out.”

 Ciel frowns. “We don’t need the stage makeup anymore, just wash it all off. Actually, I should try doing that again, this eyeliner is preposterously sticky . . .”

"Ciel, I’m running out of concealer again, could you get me another bottle? It’s in the black suitcase.”

"What do you need concealer for?”

“I don’t know if you noticed,” he says, voice curiously strained, “but I’m an Olympic ice skater, and I fall a lot, and I need lots of concealer if I’m going to show my arms or legs in public—”

“You’re wearing a long-sleeved turtleneck and jeans,” Ciel interrupts.

“I also have circles under my eyes that require plenty of fixing—”

He frowns. “I see you every morning before you put on makeup, and you’re gorgeous—”

"I am not _gorgeous_ ,” Sebastian suddenly spits. “I am unsightly, and disgusting, and repulsive and, and I look like a man, I look like my father, I want a hell of a lot of aesthetic surgery to _fix this —_” His voice breaks.

". . . Sebastian?”

“He says he doesn’t want to talk to me ever again.”

A chill runs through Ciel.

"A bronze, a silver, three golds at the Olympics. Everything he said he wanted and more, and still he’s ruining me. Did you know I’ve never made it through an Olympics without a nervous breakdown, Ciel? I swear, you probably saved my life back in 2018, and 2026 if I’m being honest . . .”

"Oh god."

"And I don’t know why I can lift you and do a triple axel and conjugate Ancient Greek verbs, but I can’t fit these little, simple roles . . .”

"Because they’re not meant for you?”

Silence.

"This was a mistake. This routine, these songs, this costume—”

"Sebastian.”

"That wave, this hair, dancing with you in the first place—”

"Sebastian!”

"That stupid, stupid kiss!” He slams his fist against the door.

Ciel recoils, swallowing back tears of his own. “I don’t think any of that was a mistake. Forget your father, we got gold—”

"The gold doesn’t matter. People matter. My _father_ matters.”

"Do you matter?”

"I suppose so, but—”

"Do I matter?”

"Of course you do.”

"All right, then,” Ciel barks, “you were the most genuinely happy that I have ever seen you today, with that routine, and those songs, and those boots, so on and so forth. You were ecstatic when you got gold and you kissed me— and don’t tell me otherwise, because I know what you look like when you’re faking happiness. You’re not nearly as good at it as you think. You were actually smiling for a good hour straight today, and I suspect that’s a personal best.”

"Oh, really—”

"Yes, really,” he bites back, “and that happiness is worth something. You should try getting more of it. My happiness is also worth something, and this was the hands-down best day of my life, because I love you!”

He screams the last words.

Silence.

"You’re deluding yourself,” Sebastian mutters.

"I highly doubt it.”

"Why would anyone love me?”

"Lettuce.”

"What?”

"Wait, no, something fancier. Maybe alfalfa sprouts?”

"What are you talking about? Did I cook that for you—”

"Please come out here, and I’ll tell you.”

He hears a shuddering inhale.

"Please don’t ask.”

"About what?”

The lock clicks, and Sebastian creeps out, his hair seemingly in disarray. Then Ciel notices that he’s arranged it to mask a swollen red spot on his right cheek.

"It’ll bruise,” he says in a low monotone, “but I don’t have any more serious injuries, no hidden concussions or anything.”

Ciel reaches out and strokes his other cheek.

Then he nods. “Okay. I’m going to message Grell and my parents and tell them we’re just going to eat the leftover salmon for our midnight snack, and there should be some fruit, right?”

"There is.”

"And maybe we can meet them tomorrow, or maybe not . . .”

"I’d like to, if you all don’t mind.”

"None of us would ever mind,” Ciel murmurs, typing into his phone. “Oh lord, my mom has the wrong idea.”

"What do you mean?”

"She says to ‘have a nice night,’ plus a ‘wink-wink’ semicolon smiley-face.”

"She’s not upset about us?”

"Upset?” Ciel snorts. “She’s very upset. As soon as she saw me post-kiss, she told me that my dad had made a bet with her, and that she had lost. He said we’d be together by the start of 2031, she said the start of 2030.”

A moment passes as Sebastian struggles to understand, then gasps. “She thought . . .”

"We’d get together sooner, yeah,” he chuckles. “I think everyone knew. Grell said she’d eventually have set us up, if we didn’t figure it out ourselves.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Maybe I’ve been obvious. After all, I’ve been in love with you since Worlds last year.”

"If anyone’s been obvious, it’s me. I’ve been in love since 2018, at Pyeongchang. Maybe earlier.”

He sputters. “What is wrong with you—”

"Remember how you asked if there was a story about me skating out of spite?”

Something in Sebastian’s face softens, then. “How about we curl up on the couch with the salmon like two overgrown cats, and you tell me?”

"Sounds good.”

-

“This feels like a dream,” Sebastian muses when they’ve settled on the couch. “I’m going to wake up, I swear . . .”

“This is reality, and I’m not leaving you unless you tell me to go,” Ciel replies with a mouth full of fish, nestling close to him, “and I will gladly explain why. We have to start a long time ago, in a place sort of far away, in the months before the 2018 Olympics. Back when I was convinced you were evil incarnate . . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue will be up in a few days.


	12. Chapter 12

“So the moral of the story is that you should fall in the Village cafeteria if you want to find your soulmate. Bonus points if you get kale and arugula in your hair.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” snarks Alois Trancy, who’s become a singles skater at this, the 2038 Olympics, after an “accident” where he slashed Claude’s face open with his skate. A whole bunch of skaters have clustered around one particular retiree.

“I agree,” chuckles Sebastian. “I’m a dork, but Ciel was worse, and— give me a second.”

His watch buzzes, alerting him to a message: “They need more points, I swear.”

“Well, many of our issues stemmed from a lack of communication, which is why we now have a policy of being open and telling each other everything as promptly as possible . . .”

The watch buzzes with a new message: “I’m bumping the technical score.”

“And that policy’s led to quite a few developments . . .”

The watch buzzes again: “I’m adding another revolution into the combo at the bridge.”

“Like right now, it’s making me want to throttle him,” Sebastian huffs, accidentally slipping into a British accent. He flicks his watch screen and dictates with fire in his eyes: “Ciel, how dare you do such violence to my choreography. You may switch the quad with the triple lutz. Any more, and I will kill you in your sleep.” He flicks the watch back and smiles beatifically. “We’re very happy together.”

He groans, seeing another message: “I think I broke Joanne.”

“Forgive me,” Sebastian excuses himself, “but I have a student to salvage.”

He rises from his throne and leaves the room. People part in the hallways for him, staring as he clicks on by in his high heels. They might be gazing at his outfit— sleek, black pants, a wide satin sash and a puffed white blouse, all tailored to show off his hourglass shape. Throw in the ponytail, the delicate features—carefully feminized through both makeup and medical procedures— and the black leather boots with six-inch heels, and he cuts a striking, androgynous figure.

More likely, they’re staring at him because he’s got 7 Olympic medals— more than any other figure skater, barring one. Either way, he radiates a confidence he once could only feign, and only on the ice.

He turns a corner, following the sound of the furious English accent.

“You have to get out there and destroy. That gold is yours, if you’ll just go and claw for it—"

“Ciel,” Sebastian stops just beside Joanne Harcourt, one of Britain’s singles skaters, the first student Ciel and Sebastian have coached. Joanne’s eyes are wobbling with tears, and they’re clearly on the verge of a breakdown. “Why don’t you chat with that reporter?”

Ciel looks up and sees Sebastian’s smile— bland, with an urge to kill seething underneath. “That . . . sounds like a good idea.” He scurries out of sight.

Sebastian turns Joanne to face him, putting his hands on his student’s shoulders. “Ciel was giving you his kill-your-opponents talk, right?”

“He’s trying to help,” Joanne says, nodding and trying to force their quivering lips into a smile, “but I’m frightened, and I don’t want to let you two and my family down . . .”

“Joanne—” Sebastian gives them a little shake— “no matter what happens, I will be proud, your parents will adore you, and if Ciel gives one little criticism then he can go to hell.”

Joanne chuckles at that.

“I know the pressure’s mounting, but you don’t have to fight for the medal, unless you find that mindset useful. You can just dance for yourself, and you’ll be exquisite.”

They nod, wiping away two wayward tears. “I’ll be the most beautiful skater they’ve ever seen.”

“Of course you will—" Sebastian hugs them— “and no matter how the score turns out, I’ll be waiting at the end with fresh-baked Nutella tarts.”

Joanne looks up, starry-eyed. “I can break the diet?”

“Smash it.”

Joanne beams, then skips off like a giddy three-year-old. Ciel emerges from his hiding spot in a nearby enclave, gaping. “You fixed them.”

“Maybe,” Sebastian sighs. “We’ve got 14 medals between us, and yet this is the Olympics that scares us most.”

“Mm-hmm,” Ciel puts his arms around him from behind and nuzzles Sebastian’s neck. “I don’t agree with everything you said, though.”

“Oh?”

“They won’t be a more beautiful skater than you.”

Sebastian breaks out laughing. “Sap!”

“Will I be a sap with a Nutella tart?”

“And so your true purpose is revealed.” He spins around, still chuckling. “Sometimes I think you only keep me for my cooking . .. “

“Oh, don’t be absurd.” With that, Ciel rises to tiptoe and pecks Sebastian Phantomhive on the lips.

His dream come true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's read/left kudos/commented/listened to me flailing about these characters in PMs. I hope you enjoyed this AU!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated <3


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